Page 3 of Where They Belong

“I’m not sure how I can make myself any clearer.” Mason turned to face Jack as he brushed his hands together to shake loose hay and dust from his gloves. “I am not interested in renewing yours, or anyone else’s, hunting leases on my property. Ever.”

The first thing Mason had done when his father died of a sudden massive coronary a little over a year ago and the reins of the seventeen-thousand-acre property had been handed down to him was to terminate all eight hunting leases on the property. The outfitters had not been happy at losing all that backcountry for their businesses, but Mason was not his father, and he didn’t agree with sport hunting in any way, shape, or form. The hunting leases had been one of many bones of contention between him and his dad. Grant Hayes leveraged every possible angle to make money off the land, and it thrived, but at what cost? Mason knew there were better, more ethical, and sustainable ways to run a ranch. That was what he wanted for his own legacy.

“That land is just sitting there loaded with wild game,” Jack continued. He stalked after Mason as he crossed the hay shed floor for another bale. “You’re costing me, and yourself, a lot of money by not honoring the long-standing leases your dad signed.”

“That’s the thing, Jack,” Mason struggled to keep the frustration at Jack’s constant needling from coloring his tone. He lifted a bale and swung it wide, forcing Jack to jump back. “I’m not my father. I didn’t agree with hunting then, and I don’t agree with it now. That aside, this ismyproperty now—privateproperty—and I’ll manage it as I see fit.”

“Right,” Jack growled, his voice dropping an octave. “Wasting all that land on a bunch of good-for-nothing horses.”

Mason tossed the bale onto the truck bed and slammed the tailgate shut. He paused with his back to Jack, hands gripping the top of the gate. Those wild horsesbelongedon America’s open ranges. They were a federally protected national treasure, a deep and rich part of the country’s history, and as much as the cattle associations tried to convince the public and land management otherwise, wild horses were integral to a balanced and sustainable ecosystem—even wildfire prevention. But he wasn’t going to get into all of that with the likes of Jack Wilks, who saw nothing more in another living creature than how much money he could exploit it for.

“Quit wasting your time coming out here.” Mason pushed off from the truck. He walked around to the driver’s side, pulled the door open, and over his shoulder said, “You know your way out.”

Jack’s eyes blazed, his mouth was pressed into a flat line, before he spun on his heel and stormed back to his SUV. He slammed the door, and the engine revved. Rock and dirt kicked out from under the tires as he floored it and barreled down the long drive.

“Asshole,” Mason muttered. He watched until Jack was out of sight to make sure the reckless idiot didn’t hit anything.

Over a year later and he was still dealing with people’s anger and resentment at what he’d done with the ranch. His dad had run it the way it had been in run in their family for three decades: raising cattle, licensing mineral rights, selling hunting leases and fishing leases on sections of the twenty-seven miles of rivers and streams that ran through their property—even licensing use of their private airstrip to local pilots.

But Mason wasn’t his father, or his grandfather, or his great-grandfather. He didn’t agree with the sentiment that “it’s always been run this way” meant there was no room for improvements and better practices. He didn’t agree with industrial agriculture and unethical beef association practices. He didn’t believe anyone with thousands of acres also needed to lease public land for pennies to graze theirfor-profitcattle and sheep. Much to the disappointment of his father, Mason was a staunch opponent of the government allowing private enterprise to destroy natural habitat and wildlife on public lands for commercial gain.

Which was why when his father died and the property was handed down to him, he’d quickly made changes to how the ranch would be run from then on.

Big changes.

Mason sold all the cattle and purchased a small herd of buffalo, which were hardier and kept better over winter, and shifted to ethical and sustainable ranching for local independent stores and restaurants. In addition to terminating the hunting leases, he reduced the fishing leases by half. He added a small number of eco-friendly outdoor adventure guide leases for hiking and wilderness camps in the northwest corner of the property. He ran miles and miles of seven-foot woven-wire elk fencing into the west and south sides of the property and began adopting wild mustangs who’d been needlessly and inhumanely rounded up. He also began rescuing neglected, abandoned, and abused domestic horses.

The mustangs who found refuge on his land were permanent, but most of the domestic horses were rehabilitated and later adopted out.

The new direction hadn’t gone over well with many of the hands who’d been working on the ranch under his dad’s charge for decades. Several had quit. Some had stayed, not caring what Mason did so long as they still got their regular paychecks at the end of each month. He’d expected some of the die-hard crew, loyal to his dad, would leave, but never in a million years would he have expected the vandalism and harassment that had followed.

Mason whistled, and his two dogs, Diesel, a blue merle cattle dog, and Marley, a black tricolor Australian shepherd, came running from the back side of the main barn. Both dogs launched themselves into the cab of the truck, and Mason climbed in after. He glanced at the side of the main barn, where a section of red paint didn’t quite match. He couldn’t even repeat the horrid words in his head that had been spray-painted there a week ago. He would never understand how someone could be so angry about what he did on his own property that they felt the need to vandalize and threaten him for it.

He shook his head and looked at the dogs, who were both watching him with anticipation. He smiled and ruffled the fur on Diesel’s head, who was sitting closest to Mason.

“What do you say we go check on our beauties?”

Diesel licked his cheek, and Marley barked. With a smile, Mason fired up the truck and headed down one of the ranch’s many dirt interior roads to a ten-acre pasture, where his most recent wild horses were decompressing. Their weight looked good, and they were much more relaxed than when they’d first arrived. Their thirty-day quarantine was up in a few days, after which he’d turn them out into the eight-thousand-acre pasture with the big herd, where they could be as wild and free as they needed.

Horses were intelligent animals, and it never took long for them to learn that the sound of Mason’s approaching truck or one of the farm utility Gators meant hay and treats, and they were quick to approach. Some of the younger and more trusting mustangs came right up to the truck, impatiently sneaking mouthfuls of hay as Mason pulled bales from the bed of his truck, cut the bailing twines, and spread piles of flakes around the feeding area. Others waited until Mason dropped the hay and moved on before they dug in. All the while, the dogs trotted around enthusiastically with their noses to the ground.

Once all the hay was spread out, Mason walked over to a large water trough for a quick inspection and then leaned against his truck to watch the horses.

His heart swelled, a smile softened his face, and a sense of peace fell over him. This was right, ensuring these displaced and traumatized horses had a safe harbor to live out their lives in peaceful freedom with their chosen bands. It broke his heart every time there was a senseless roundup and families were separated. It was cruel and inhumane, and he made it his mission to reunite as many wild family bands as he could.

One of the yearlings came up to him, a gorgeous golden pinto, and stretched her neck out, looking for treats. Mason chuckled and scrubbed her velvety nose, honored that she trusted him enough for that small contact.

“Hello, Princess,” he said softly. “Just so happens I have a goodie for you.”

He reached into the back corner of the truck, where a bucket was loaded with fresh carrots and homemade cookies, and grabbed a handful.

Once again content and settled after a little equine therapy, he drove to the next pasture, where mostly senior geldings had almost a hundred acres to wander and play. After spreading out flakes of hay, Romeo, his favorite blue roan pinto, strolled right up to him and nibbled hay from his hand.

“How’s it going, you old lug?”

The first adoption and sale event Mason had attended had been in Cañon City. When he’d walked past a corral that held Romeo and several other older geldings, Romeo lifted his head, and their eyes met. The wild horse’s gaze followed Mason the full length of the enclosure, and when Mason stopped, Romeo had taken a single step closer. That day, Mason brought home twenty-four mustangs, and thanks to the diligent and dedicated work of wild horse photographers, he was able to reunite Romeo with two of his sons in the following months.

He loved every single horse he’d saved, but there was a special connection with Romeo that he was honored to share. He gave Romeo a little pet on his cheek, and then Romeo wandered off to graze on the fresh hay.

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